To Edward Williams

The serpent is shut out from Paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more In which its heart-cure lies: The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs Fled in the April hour. I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. Of hatred I am proud,--with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent; But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent.…